The Ackerman Thrillers Boxset: 1-6

by Ethan Cross

  Ackerman released Maggie and stepped out of the car. A strong gust of wind pushed against him. There were no obstructions along the road to block the flow of air, just open fields. Which also meant that the driver of the car had nowhere to run. He could still smell the burned rubber from the Crown Vic’s tires. He raised the gun and started toward the station wagon. His steps were small and jerky because of the chains around his ankles.

  “Get out of the car!” he yelled.

  A heavyset woman in her mid-forties exited the Subaru. Her hands were raised over her head, and she refused to make eye contact with Ackerman. He resisted the urge to smile. She was perfect.

  He turned back to the Crown Vic and yelled to Maggie, “We’re changing cars.”

  She complied, but her eyes were on fire. If he’d had a normal sense of fear, he might have found her threatening in that moment.

  The heavyset woman still wouldn’t meet his gaze. He walked closer, and she recoiled. He said, “What’s your name?”

  “Tammy,” she replied with a whimper.

  “Is your purse in the car?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, Tammy. We’re going to play a little game. It’s called Simon Says. Are you familiar with that game?”

  She gave a rapid nod. Ackerman had the amusing thought that she was like a bobble-head doll only in reverse, a big body and a small head.

  “Excellent, Tammy. The only difference between the way you may have played it before and my version is that, since I have your purse, I know where you live. I like to hurt people, Tammy. I can find you again and hurt you. I can hurt those you love. And if you don’t do as Simon says, I’ll do exactly that. Simon Says, nod if you understand?”

  She bobble-headed in the affirmative.

  “You’re doing so well, Tammy. All you have to do is get in that Crown Victoria, turn the car around, and drive away. And don’t stop driving until you see flashing police lights telling you to do so. If you do as Simon says, you won’t get in any trouble, and you’ll never see me again. It’ll be a couple hours of your time. A minor inconvenience. Please don’t turn this into more than that. Tell me you understand.”

  “I understand.”

  “Oh, Tammy... Simon didn’t say.” He stepped closer and pointed the gun at her head.

  “No! Please!” she cried.

  Ackerman couldn’t help but smile. “Okay, my dear. Consider that your one and only do-over. Simon says, get in the Crown Vic and drive away.”

  Tammy hesitated for a few seconds as if she expected him to shoot her in the back once she turned. But then she shuffled off toward the dark car and sped away from them.

  Ackerman turned to the station wagon and saw Maggie behind the wheel of the car. He walked around to the passenger side, got in, and placed Maggie’s gun between them on the console. She grabbed it and jammed it back into her holster. The radio was blasting out a Jack Johnson song. He flipped it off. He hated that upbeat crap. It made his teeth hurt.

  “Let’s go, Maggie. We’ve wasted enough of our head-start already.”

  Maggie said, “You didn’t have to scare her like that.”

  “I believe I did, little sister. She’s our decoy. We need her to run in the direction opposite us as fast as she can for as long as she can. That’s a government-issue vehicle. It’ll be LoJacked. They’ll track it down, and when they see it’s still moving, they will hopefully think that we’re still driving it. It won’t be long before they catch her and start looking for this car instead. But, with any luck, it will be long enough. Don’t forget, I’m the expert on evading manhunts. In order to escape, we’re going to need to do four things: know their tactics, employ misdirection, do the unexpected, and be patient. That was misdirection.”

  “So what’s next?”

  “We’re going camping.”

  56

  ACKERMAN TOLD MAGGIE TO PULL THE SUBARU OVER AT A LONG WHITE AND BLUE PREFAB BUILDING. He had already scouted the business to make sure it carried the necessary supplies. He employed a similar procedure for every new city he visited. For him, preparedness meant the difference between freedom and life in a cage. The business was actually several small shops under one blue metal roof. Signs above three separate doors read: C&M Grocer’s and General Store, The Little Souvenir Shop, and Capt. Dave’s Bait, Tackle, and Sporting Goods. Ackerman only cared about the latter. They parked along the building’s side behind a dumpster to conceal the vehicle from the road.

  After taking a few minutes for Maggie to help him get free of his restraints, he said, “I need cash.”

  “Why? What are you doing?”

  “Trust me. We need a few things. I’ll need the gun too. Just in case.”

  “That’s out of the question.”

  He met her gaze. He knew he could take it from her, but it wasn’t vital and this was wasting valuable time. “Fine. Give me the cash.”

  She handed him two fifty-dollar bills, and he walked around the side of the building to the final door. It opened with a ding. A pretty young blonde wearing a tan baseball cap with a catfish motif looked up and flashed an obligatory smile. Ackerman returned the expression as he ran down his mental checklist of supplies.

  He immediately bypassed the lures and reels and bait and moved to the back of the shop. Grabbing two green camping backpacks from a shelf, he stuffed one full of MRE—Meal, Ready-to-Eat—military field rations. The other he packed with bottles of water, two sleeping bags, nylon rope, and two Mylar thermal blankets. Then he grabbed two camouflage winter coats. He wanted to purchase a survival knife as well but didn’t have enough cash, and he was just as deadly with his bare hands as with a knife anyway.

  He had the supplies in hand and purchased and was back at the car in less than three minutes. He and Maggie switched positions, and he pulled out onto the two-lane and headed toward DC.

  “Where are we going now?” Maggie asked.

  “To find a drug dealer.”

  *

  Ackerman pulled the Subaru up next to a curb in a particularly bad area of Prince George’s county, a suburb south of DC. The nearby houses had bars on all their windows. Many were covered in graffiti and looked abandoned. Two young black men in sideways hats and baggy jeans sat on a concrete retaining wall thirty feet ahead.

  “Get out and grab the backpacks. Wait by the car,” Ackerman said. Then he slipped on one of the camo coats and tossed the other to Maggie.

  The two black youths eyed him suspiciously as he approached as if they couldn’t decide if he was a cop, a potential customer, or a potential robbery victim.

  Ackerman approached them with a smile, and gesturing back at the silver Subaru, he said, “See that car?”

  “We ain’t blind, son,” the more muscular of the two youths said.

  “Good. Then you can see a good deal when it crosses your path. I’ll trade you that car for a switchblade knife.”

  The kid laughed. “If I want your piece-of-crap car, I’ll just take it.”

  Ackerman let just a little predatory menace seep onto his features and said, “You could try. Or we could make a mutually beneficial trade like two businessmen.”

  The kid looked from him to the car. “Is it hot?”

  “Yes, it is. Not a problem for your friendly neighborhood chop shop, though. It’s quick cash.”

  The muscular kid pulled out a knife and pushed a button to expose the blade. “Sure, but I’ll take everything in your pockets too.”

  Ackerman couldn’t help himself. He laughed, loud and boisterous. The kid looked displeased. He glanced at his friend as if he couldn’t believe the disrespect. Then, probably trying to retain his street cred, he thrust the knife toward Ackerman’s gut.

  The killer easily caught the thrust and then slammed his fist into the kid’s throat. The kid released the knife, grabbed at his neck, and fell back on the concrete, gasping for air.

  The scrawnier young man looked down at his friend and raised his hands as if to say he didn’t want trouble. Ackerman
tossed him the Subaru’s keys. He caught them almost from reflex.

  Ackerman said, “Nice doing business with you. I’d get rid of that car quickly.”

  Retracting the blade and sliding the knife into his pocket, Ackerman walked back to Maggie. He said, “Come on. We’re five blocks from ten acres of woods.”

  Maggie didn’t say a word. She just fell in step behind him. They walked the five blocks without being harassed, crossed a two-lane road, and entered a patch of timberland alongside the highway. They were a few hundred yards into the trees when Maggie said, “This is your plan. We’re going to just hide in the woods. Those kids could be calling the cops right now.”

  “Our two friends back there were the go-between for a drug dealer. You walk up, place your order with them, and then you pick it up from another guy. They’re not going to the police. The only way anyone is going to find us out here is with dogs, and how are they going to know where to look? Trust me. We’re as good as vanished.”

  After another few minutes, Ackerman found their home for the next few days. The tree was perfect, tall with plenty of branches and foliage for concealment. “This is it. Now we climb.”

  Maggie looked up. “You can’t be serious.”

  “As a heart attack. We can’t just sit around where someone might spot us. We need concealment. What’s the matter? You never climb a tree before?”

  “Not since I was twelve. What about food and water?”

  Ackerman pulled out an MRE and a water bottle.

  “What about going to the bathroom?”

  Ackerman cracked his neck and sighed. “You hang your ass over the edge and do what comes naturally. What’s the problem?”

  “How long are you planning on being out here?”

  “At least three days. Should be longer to be safe, but three will do. After that they’ll assume we’ve made it through their net.”

  “You expect me to live in a tree for three days eating nothing but those damn MREs?”

  “I’ve survived ten times that long on nothing but bugs and berries and drinking from leaves. You’ll be fine, little sister. Now climb.”

  57

  MAGGIE WATCHED ACKERMAN SLEEP ACROSS FROM HER IN THE TREE. The nylon rope secured him in place. His eyes were closed, and his head rested on the bark at an angle. He looked so peaceful, so normal. But she knew what lay beneath those calm waters. She knew what kind of man he really was, and she considered, not for the first time, shooting him and shoving him out of the tree. But then where would that leave Marcus? Like or not, Ackerman was her best shot at finding him.

  A branch snapped somewhere in the distance. It was a faint sound, barely even audible. Ackerman’s eyes snapped open as if an alarm had sounded. He stared in the direction of the sound for a moment and then turned to Maggie. He said, “I should probably hold the gun.”

  “Not going to happen.”

  “What are you going to do if someone finds us out here? Are you going to use it?”

  “No, and neither are you. We’ll run.”

  “If we get caught out here, there’s no running. Our only choice is to fight.”

  “You promised Marcus no killing,” she said.

  “I could shoot them in the leg. After all, it’s better to give than to receive.”

  Maggie shook her head. “I don’t think that’s the right context.”

  “I feel it’s applicable.”

  “You’re not getting the gun, so drop it. And we’re not hurting anyone. If we get caught and can’t get away, then that’ll be it.”

  Ackerman growled deep in his throat but leaned back and watched the forest for any more signs of movement. Then he took off his boot, pulled out a switchblade knife, and started cutting into the leather of the boot’s toe.

  Maggie said, “Where did you get that?”

  “I took it off those nice young gentlemen when one of them tried to ram it into my midsection.”

  “I don’t like you having that.”

  “We both know I could just as easily kill you or anyone else with my bare hands.”

  He continued his cutting until he had a small slit where the sole and the leather top of the boot joined. Curiosity getting the better of her, Maggie asked, “What are you doing?”

  Ackerman didn’t say a word, but he slipped the switchblade into the boot and placed it back on his foot. Then he raised his leg to show her, and with a small twitch of his ankle, the blade popped out of the front of his boot. He grinned with satisfaction, but Maggie just shook her head and looked away.

  They sat in silence for another hour, and then Maggie commented, “It’s so peaceful out here. It feels like we’re the only people in the world.”

  “This isn’t peaceful. You can still hear the highway and honking cars and the noise pollution marking the presence of the virus that is humanity. Not to mention all the chirping and buzzing and scratching of a million little creatures. You want peaceful? The ocean. A sailboat. That’s been my dream for as long as I can remember. Just me and the wind and the waves. Not another person within a hundred miles. No temptation. No reminders. Just me and God.”

  “You really think God’s forgiven you for all that you’ve done?”

  Ackerman leaned his head back again and said, “Then I acknowledged my sin to you and did not cover up my iniquity. I said, ‘I will confess my transgressions to the Lord.’ And you forgave the guilt of my sin.”

  “The Bible?”

  “Psalm 32. Written by David as one of the seven penitential Psalms. David was an adulterer and a murderer. Yet the Bible says that he was a man after God’s own heart. Noah was a drunk. Jacob was a liar. Moses had a stuttering problem. Elijah was suicidal. Peter denied Christ. God doesn’t choose perfect people. All people are flawed and stray from the path. I’ve just strayed further than most. And now I’m trying to make amends as best I can. Everything that’s happened to me has been for a reason. We’re the sum of our experiences. We can’t change them, but we can learn from them and use those lessons and gifts born of hardship to make a difference.”

  “You really believe all that, don’t you?”

  “I have to. It’s not easy for me, Maggie. Living in your world. The hunger is always there in the back of my mind. The darkness never sleeps. I see a building, and I want to burn it down. I see a group of smiling faces, and I want to see them twist in agony. I used to wish that I was normal, but now I know that I’m who I am for a reason. Pain is my nature, but I’ve chosen to transcend it. To use it. To be greater than the sum of my parts. George Bernard Shaw said that life isn’t about finding yourself. It’s about creating yourself. And that’s what I’m trying to do. Create a better me.”

  Maggie didn’t know what to say. She hated this man. He was a murderer and a danger to society, but she couldn’t help but empathize with him and even feel inspired by his desire to become a better person. She pulled out one of the MREs and choked down a package labeled as BBQ chicken with black beans and potatoes. As she ate, she watched the sun rise over the trees—a beautiful halo of molten orange and purple, blue and yellow—and thought about Ackerman’s words, her own mistakes and insecurities, and Marcus’s struggles with finding himself. She couldn’t help but wonder if the serial killer actually had himself together better than the rest of them.

  58

  CRAIG SHOOK WITH ANGER AS HE STARED INTO THE CRACKED MIRROR OF THE OLD GAS STATION. The business had shut down early on in the recession, and the company for which he worked had snatched up the facility for pennies on the dollar. He imagined that the reason the station had closed was because of how far off the beaten path it sat. That was also the reason they had picked it. No one nearby to hear the screams.

  Craig washed his hands in the oil-stained sink, and blood flowed off his fingers and down the drain. Some of the blood had originated from tiny cuts on his knuckles, but most had spilled from his subject.

  He looked deep into his own eyes through the grime of the gas-station mirror. He searched for any remnan
t of the kid from Nebraska who had played college football and briefly dated a goth chick just to drive his bible-thumping mother crazy. All that seemed like so long ago. Even the memories were alien to him. It seemed as if he had been implanted with the recollections of some other poor dead soul. The man staring back at him now was a warrior.

  But even warriors had friends. Perhaps even friendships that ran deeper than those of most men because such friendships were forged in blood and mud and fear and pain and loneliness and putting your very existence in the hands of the man next to you.

  Craig had lost someone like that today. A brother with a bond forged through fire that could only be broken by death. In that small cabin on a normally routine operation where they shouldn’t have encountered any resistance, one of his brothers had been stolen from him. Maybe he could have accepted the death if it had occurred in combat in Iraq or Afghanistan or South America. But only a few miles from home, gunned down by a federal agent trying to liberate a serial killer? Craig couldn’t wrap his mind around that. It didn’t sit well with him. Someone needed to pay for it. In fact, more than one someone would pay for it. The man in the chair, whom he had been torturing for information, would be the first to suffer and die, but he wouldn’t be the last.

  Craig dried his hands and threw the towel at the reflection in the mirror. His phone sat on the edge of the sink, and its display lit up with a text message from his girlfriend, Julie. The message read, Are you going to call later? I’ve had a hard day and wanted to hear your voice. Love you. He felt a pang of guilt for always lying to her. Julie was a second-grade teacher at a Catholic school in Maryland, and she wouldn’t exactly understand the true nature of his work. He considered, not for the first time, how he could take an instructor position closer to home and propose to Julie. But he just kept telling himself that he would look into it after completing one more mission. One more operation and then out. One more big payday. But one more never seemed to be enough.

  Without responding to Julie’s message, Craig walked back to where his subject, Andrew Garrison, was seated. White nylon rope secured Garrison’s hands and feet to a metal chair. His face was a bloody mess. The pinky on his left hand had been broken and was still twisted at an odd angle. Bandages covered Garrison’s legs where the mercenaries had patched up a few gunshot wounds—all clean pass-throughs or grazes—since Craig didn’t want Garrison dying before the agent told him where to find Ackerman and Agent Carlisle. The whole room smelled of old oil and fresh feces. Garrison had defecated on himself during the interrogation. It was often involuntary, and Craig didn’t fault the man for it. Garrison had actually maintained his defiance at a level that Craig hadn’t expected. Still, he would break. They always did. And Craig hadn’t even delved into his bag of tricks.